


the calm before crescendo

by abovetheruins



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 15:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14696724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: Alternate title: 5 times Shane Madej was flustered by Ryan Bergara, and 1 time he finally did something about it.





	the calm before crescendo

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [lights and thunder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14899343) by [abovetheruins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins). 



> I honestly just wanted to write flustered!Shane and it grew into 6500+ words ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Just in time for #shyanpositivityweek!
> 
> Title courtesy of Firing Squad by David Cook.

1.

Shane has a problem.

It starts with alcohol, as these things typically do. More specifically, it starts with Shane slumped in a booth at the local bar, his face flushed from both an indeterminable amount of shots and the crush of so many people in such a small space. He's skirting the edge between consciousness and sleep, courtesy of a late flight the night before and an abundance of alcohol, and his head has gradually migrated from the back of the booth to the surface of the table. Not that there’s much of a difference; they're both sticky and stink of booze, but in his current state either is preferable to holding his head aloft any longer.

In retrospect, he might have overdone it just a bit.

"You tappin’ out already, big guy?" someone chirps. Shane makes a face, already knowing who the interloper is without needing to open his eyes. The barely hidden amusement in that voice is enough of a giveaway.

"How the fuck are you even mobile right now?" he asks, squinting up at his friend. Ryan is flushed from dancing, dark hair sweat damp and sticking to his forehead, and his wide smile practically glows in the dim light of the bar. "You had just as much as me, and there's _so_ much less of you."

Ryan rolls his eyes, though his grin fails to waver. It's the usual post-investigation high hard at work, Shane figures. Ryan's always a little more energetic after they've returned from filming for an episode of Unsolved, especially if they've managed to stay overnight in a so-called haunted location; it's the sheer, unadulterated joy of survival. "A short joke. Nice way to treat your ride home, asshole."

"Don't need a ride," Shane mumbles, allowing his eyes to slip closed again. He feels like miniature weights have been attached to his eyelids, and keeping them open requires more energy than he cares to spare. "Gonna set up shop right here, buddy."

"Uh huh," Ryan replies dubiously. Shane hears the thud of his footsteps coming closer, followed by the weight of a hand on his shoulder. "I don't think future Shane will appreciate waking up glued to this table. Also? We have work in the morning, in case you forgot."

"That's a problem for future Shane." Shane speaks the words around a yawn, tucking his chin into the circle of his folded arms.

"You forget that future Shane is also hungover Shane, and I’ll have enough problems sitting next to him without him smelling like stale booze."

There's an acerbic rejoinder to that on the tip of Shane's tongue, surely, yet all he's able to mumble in reply is, “You love sittin’ next to him. Me. Asshole.”

Ryan wheezes. "C'mon, beanpole," he says, wrapping an arm around Shane’s shoulders. Shane opens his mouth to protest – he’s grown quite fond of his sticky tabletop, thank you very much; also there’s a chance he might topple to the floor if he tries to stand – but all that comes out is a nonsensical yelp as Ryan grabs his arm and, in one effortless yank, hoists Shane up out of the booth.

“Fuckin’ _Christ_ ,” Shane curses, a distinct note of awe in his voice that he attempts to smother before Ryan catches it; judging by the smirk on Ryan's lips, he doubts he was successful. But so what? He wasn't expecting to be tugged up and carted off like he weighed nothing.

“You doin’ okay, big guy?” Ryan asks, his arm snug around Shane’s waist and his other hand anchoring Shane’s arm around his shoulders. He’s so completely nonplussed by the entire situation that it’s actually starting to piss Shane off a little. Fucker could at least _pretend_ to be out of breath.

Still, Shane gives the question some thought. _Okay_ is… subjective. His legs may as well be part noodle for how well they're holding him up, and he’s feeling unreasonably warm ever since Ryan decided to go all He-Man on him. How the fuck he’s managing to maneuver Shane through the crowd and out of the bar with nothing but an arm around his back, all without a single grunt of effort, Shane has no idea. He might be a thin guy but there's a lot of him, and it's not like he's helping much - he's little more than dead weight in Ryan's hold.

“Show off,” Shane mutters, for lack of anything better to say. It’s meant to be an insult, though his voice doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. It's gotten all breathy and shit, like he's impressed by Ryan's little show of strength.

He's not. He's just... surprised. 

Or so he tells himself.

 

2.

Ryan was right about one thing: future Shane and hungover Shane are one and the same, and he's not thrilled to be stumbling into work the next morning with the dull remnants of a headache and a face scratchy with the stubble he hadn't had time to shave. He'd barely had time to catch a quick shower before heading to the office, and his hair is still damp and dripping water down into his collar.

He makes a beeline for the kitchen as soon as he arrives, not even bothering to stop in at his desk first. The siren call of caffeine beckons him to the coffee pot, which has yet to be picked clean and is blessedly still hot. Shane fills a mug and deposits the empty carafe back in the pot, sighing as he takes his first sip. Ah, bliss. 

Coffee in hand, he feels sufficiently more prepared for the day ahead, and he hitches the strap of his bag further up his shoulder as he heads out to his desk. He nearly upends his prize at the doorway when he runs into Ryan; only his iron grip on his mug saves him from tragedy.

“Jesus, Bergara, where’s the fire?” 

Ryan takes one look at his face and sighs, not bothering to answer the question. “You got the last of it, didn’t you?”

Shane takes a damning sip from his mug, saying nothing.

Ryan narrows his eyes. “You didn’t bother to make more, did you?”

Shane takes another sip – longer this time, just so he can watch Ryan twitch – and follows it up with a patient, “Ryan, why do you continue to ask questions that you already know the answer to?”

“The same reason I put up with you,” Ryan replies sweetly. “Because I like to fucking punish myself, apparently.”

Shane clasps Ryan’s shoulder, nodding like he had figured as much. “It’s okay, Ryan,” he says seriously. “Your kinks are valid.”

Ryan wheezes, annoyance forgotten in the face of Shane’s absolute ridiculousness. “Get outta my way, Sasquatch.” 

“You’re lucky I’m into name calling, Bergara,” Shane teases, grinning as Ryan just rolls his eyes. Their exchange of banter thus complete, they make to duck around each other, only to bump into one another as they move in the same direction. “Whoops,” Shane chirps, taking a step in the opposite direction, only for Ryan to do the same and wind up bumping into each other again. They go back and forth like they’re performing some sort of awkward two-step – and okay, maybe Shane’s prolonging the bit just to rile Ryan up a little more, it’s a habit! – until Ryan laughs and grips Shane’s arms, moving him aside and pressing him firmly against the opposite side of the doorway so he can slip through.

“You’re such a dick, Shane,” he calls over his shoulder, though the insult is undermined by the fondness in his tone.

Shane mumbles a weak reply, the words not even fully registering in his brain. He’s too busy rewinding the last few seconds, slumped against the doorway with the lingering warmth of Ryan’s hands curled around his biceps. There’s a distinctly familiar heat settling in the pit of his stomach, and there’s no alcohol to blame it on this time.

Well. 

Shit. 

 

3.

Shane is a logical man. He's not unaware of his newfound fascination with Ryan's physique or his sudden appreciation for how Ryan _uses_ said physique. He's even fairly certain he knows what brought it all on – that night in the bar, when Ryan had tugged him out of the booth and carted him off into the night without breaking a sweat, as though Shane weighed nothing at all. 

They've never been the most tactile of friends. Other than the occasional high five or shoulder bump they don’t tend to be very physical with each other. That doesn't mean they've ever had any issue being in each other's space, though, whether that meant sharing a couch or a bed, but there’s a difference between lounging on a sofa together during movie nights and Ryan putting his hands on him. Moving Shane around like it takes no thought, no effort at all, because it doesn’t. Ryan could move him wherever – however – he wanted to and there’s not much Shane could do about it.

Jesus Christ, why does that thought make him squirm?

Shane’s never been under any delusions – he’s well aware that Ryan could kick his ass if he really wanted to. He might have Ryan beaten in size but there’s no contest between them in terms of sheer strength, and Ryan has the musculature to prove it. Shane’s seen enough to know; Ryan’s never been shy about losing his shirt after all, whether it was in the course of shooting a video for Buzzfeed or in the middle of shooting hoops with their coworkers, and his biceps alone are pretty fucking intimidating. Shane’s not the only one to notice, either – he’s seen the fucking memes and thirsty comments on their social media, okay.

It’s an accepted fact that Ryan’s a strong dude, is what Shane’s getting at. 

Shane’s just never been on the receiving end of that strength, and it’s… a lot. It’s distracting.

Goddamn it, it’s _attractive_. 

It could just be the novelty of someone actually being able to push him around, Shane supposes. His height usually assures that no one tries to fuck with him, and he’s a pretty non-confrontational guy to begin with, so he’s never been in a situation, violent or no, where someone’s even tried. None of his previous romantic partners have ever really attempted to exert that kind of strength over him, either, not in any serious capacity. 

Maybe Shane just has a thing for manhandling. That’s a kink, surely. 

Maybe it’s not even about Ryan; maybe, in the end, Ryan is just the catalyst and not the cause.

It’s a pretty solid theory. It certainly holds more weight than anything Ryan would come up with, if Shane were to run this little mystery by him. Shane just needs to test it.  
Ironically enough, it’s Ryan that gives him the chance. 

“Listen to this and tell me what you think it says,” Ryan tells him, pushing Shane down into his chair first thing in the morning a couple of weeks after the Bar Incident (so titled because That Night My Sanity was Tested by Ryan Bergara and His Arms of Steel is a bit of a mouthful). 

“Good morning to you too, Ry,” Shane says, grinning as Ryan stuffs headphones over his ears. He ignores the tingling warmth in his shoulders from Ryan’s grip and focuses on Ryan’s laptop, where an audio file has been pulled up on screen.

“Listen,” Ryan repeats, reaching over Shane’s shoulder to press play. 

Shane recognizes the audio from their latest investigation, an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere that had been drafty as hell and full of mice. He hears Ryan’s voice asking if anyone is there, if they can say their name or announce their presence somehow, the usual song and dance. 

A low rasp filters through the headphones after Ryan’s voice trails off, followed by a high-pitched whine and Ryan’s hushed, shaky, “Did you hear that?”

The clip ends, and Shane raises an eyebrow at Ryan’s expectant, triumphant expression. 

“Well?” Ryan asks, practically bouncing on the toes of his sneakers as he awaits Shane’s reply.

“It sounded like – “ Shane repeats the same feeble rasp from the audio clip, lips twitching as Ryan deflates with a groan. “It was probably just our shoes scrapping over the floor or something.”

“Seriously, Shane?” Ryan sighs. “We weren’t even moving! And what was that cry, at the end? C’mon, just – “ He leans back over Shane’s shoulder, his chest pressing against Shane’s back and forcing Shane to lean forward beneath his weight. 

That’s a lot of warmth plastered to his spine. Warmth and some pretty fucking firm pectorals. Unbidden, Shane imagines Ryan folding him into the same position somewhere other than the crowded offices of Buzzfeed, with none of the prying eyes and far less clothes.

“ – listen again,” Ryan is saying, pressing play on the audio recording and curling his hand around Shane’s shoulder as it runs through one more time.

Shane hears none of it, just white noise filtering through his head, a rush of static. His shoulder and back are too warm, heat flushing through his cheeks as Ryan leans against him, pushing him further toward the screen. It’s an unconscious movement, Shane’s sure. Ryan’s probably not even aware that he’s doing it, but that doesn’t detract from its effect on Shane, not in the slightest.

“ – no way that’s one of us, Shane,” Ryan’s voice filters back in a rush of sound. Shane takes one look at his earnest expression and lowers the headphones pressed to his ears.

“I know you’re not gonna want to hear this, Ryan,” he starts, his voice a little faint with remnants of… well, something he shouldn’t be encouraging in a public space. “But I just don’t find it – “

“God help you if you say the c-word, Shane,” Ryan warns, reaching for his laptop and flipping the lid shut. “I’m gonna get a second opinion.”

“You do that,” Shane murmurs, watching Ryan’s back as he walks away, no doubt in search of more sympathetic ears than Shane’s. His t-shirt stretches tight over his shoulders and back, emphasizing the musculature beneath, and Shane jerks his gaze away, sinking into Ryan’s chair with a low, bitten-off groan. 

So much for his theory. 

 

4\. 

Ryan stares up at him, lips tilted in a beatific smile. “How do you want me?” he asks, voice husky and low. His hands are curled around Shane’s hips, holding him in place, and Shane sucks in a breath as his thumbs slip along the strip of bared skin at his waistband. 

Shane can’t speak, not a single fucking word. He’s burning up inside, feels awkward and almost coltish atop Ryan’s thighs, uncharacteristically nervous for reasons he can’t even name. He’s pressed his hands to the mattress on either side of Ryan’s head for lack of anywhere else to put them, and his fingers clench in the bedsheets as Ryan uses his grip on his hips to pull him down, rolling up to meet him in a slow, delicious grind.

“Like this?” There’s a teasing glint to Ryan’s eyes as Shane pants above him, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he continues to pull Shane down against him. The press of his fingers into Shane’s hips is hard enough to bruise, but it’s good, it’s so fucking good, and the friction of their dicks rubbing together through their jeans is even better. 

Ryan tilts his head, his hands drifting along the curve of Shane’s ass, a faint, teasing touch that Shane can barely feel through his jeans, yet it’s enough to pull a gasp from his throat. “Like this, Shane?” Ryan repeats, stroking the length of Shane’s thighs, blunt nails scratching at his jeans, building up long lines of heat in the denim. “Or maybe like this?”

He bucks his hips, using his grip on Shane’s thighs to flip their positions. Shane falls to the bed with a startled curse, though he only has a second to recover before Ryan is yanking him down into the center of the mattress, Shane’s long legs splaying around his hips.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Shane breathes, a shiver working down his spine as Ryan rocks against him, his arms winding around Shane’s hips and lifting his ass from the bed. The position pushes his shoulders into the mattress, his hands scrabbling at the sheets before he finally clenches fistfuls between his fingers, his head falling back. It’s a struggle to breathe, and a whine builds in his throat as his jeans rub against the swollen head of his cock, the friction rough and hard and on the razor’s edge of too painful.

“You like this,” Ryan murmurs, his voice sex-hoarse and unbearably smug. _Knowing_ , like he’s unearthed Shane’s deepest, darkest secrets and laid them all bare. “You like my hands on you like this. You like how strong I am. How easily I can push and pull you, until you’re right where I want you, how I want you.” He ducks his head and presses his lips to the bare skin of Shane’s stomach, smiling against the twitching muscles. “Right, big guy?”

Shane nods his head, bare feet scrabbling against the bed as Ryan mouths along the soft skin above his waistband. “Yeah, yes, _fuck_ , Ry. Whatever you want, just do it, c’mon – “

Ryan’s soft laughter fans out against his belly, warming skin left tingling from his lips and tongue. Something bursts in Shane’s chest at the sound, so familiar and yet so new, and he desperately seeks out Ryan’s eyes, his cock pulsing at the look on his face, so intent and hungry, almost feverish. He’s barely even broken a sweat, and his _arms_ , holy fucking Christ, the image of his biceps bulging as he holds Shane’s hips off the mattress will forever be seared into his brain. It’s enough to make his belly go hot, his balls drawing up tight against his body as the pressure in his groin builds into an unbearable crescendo –

Shane wakes with a groan, his vision blurry and his thighs splayed awkwardly beneath his rumpled sheets. He stares at his bedroom ceiling for a solid twenty seconds before he bites out a curse, pressing his palms to his sweaty face. 

He’s hard and straining in his pajama pants, the phantom sensation of strong hands gripping his hips and curling around his thighs making it impossible to settle the heated rush of his blood. He holds his breath for a moment, the whole of him trembling pathetically in the darkness of his bedroom.

_Alright, subconscious, you fucking win_ , he thinks, exhaling noisily through his mouth, and slips his hand beneath his waistband. 

 

5\. 

They’re on location, spending the night in a supposedly haunted hotel in Savannah, when Shane officially loses his goddamn mind. He wakes in the middle of the night to Ryan poking him through the sheets, two realizations striking him at once: one, it's fucking freezing, and two: he's somehow managed to hoard most of the blankets. 

"Shane, c’mon,” Ryan is whispering, jostling his shoulder. “It's fucking cold, dude. Stop hogging the covers."

The curl of his hand over Shane’s shoulder is warm despite the chill of the room. All Shane has to do is lift his hips, just enough so that Ryan can claim some of his bounty and hopefully go back to sleep – if he’s even slept at all at this point; unlikely, considering their surroundings – but something stops him, some ridiculous urge that keeps his eyes shut and his breathing even, a pantomime of sleep. Remnants of his dream, maybe, and the others that had followed suit in the long weeks after, some faint and barely remembered, others so vibrant and intense he had barely been able to look at Ryan for days afterwards.

" _Shane_." Ryan tugs on the sheets, strong enough that Shane's body, wrapped in its blanket burrito, jerks to the side. Shane’s pulse flutters in his throat, warmth pooling in his cheeks and deep in his belly, but he keeps still, ignoring the part of his brain that’s screaming at him to stop fucking around.

A bitten off growl of frustration is all the warning he gets before Ryan's arms are wrapping around his hips, lifting them off the bed and digging the sheets out from beneath him. He drops Shane back to the mattress with a muffled grumble, but Shane can’t make out any words, can barely hear shit over the sudden rush of static in his head.

Ryan had done it so _easily_ , lifted Shane as if he weighed nothing, and another wave of heat rushes to his face and belly so quickly Shane feels as though he’s suddenly sweltering beneath the sheets. His breath hitches, too loud in the silence of the room, and Ryan stops messing with the sheets long enough to snipe at him.

"Really, Shane? You were awake all that time?" The bed creaks as he leans closer, peering down at Shane, and Shane cracks his eyes open with a silent plea that his thoughts aren’t plastered all over his goddamn face.

Ryan tilts his head, his brows scrunching together. Shane doesn't like that look – he’s seen it often enough when they’re discussing the particulars of a case on True Crime. It’s the look of someone whose gotten wind of a mystery and is determined to solve it. "Is something going on, man? You've been... weird, lately. Well. Weird _er_."

"I take offense to that," Shane rasps, a pitiful attempt at humor to distract from the hot writhing mess his insides have become. Five seconds of contact through the barrier of hotel sheets should not be affecting him this much. 

Ryan doesn’t rise to the bait. “Seriously, Shane,” he says, so full of effortless care and concern that Shane feels a hot flush of guilt curdle in his stomach. “Something’s up. Is it… are you okay?”

Christ. “It’s – “ His lips falter over the word _nothing_. He doesn’t want to lie. “I’m okay, Ry. Really. Just – trying to figure some stuff out.”

Ryan settles down onto his side, pulling the covers up to his shoulder. “What kind of stuff?” he asks, his stubble rasping against the pillow as he shifts his head. His eyes are wide and dark, curious, and Shane imagines spilling it all out for him, telling him everything.

_I want you to push me around_ , he thinks, his throat running dry as he holds Ryan’s gaze. _I want you to put your hands on me. Pin me down, lift me up, whatever you want_.

“I can’t – “ he starts, and something in his face must convey his struggle, his – yes, his _fear_ , because Ryan leans closer, lips parting in surprise. “I can’t talk about it. Not yet. But I will, okay? Just… give me a little time?”

Ryan chews on his lower lip, and Shane braces himself for more questions. He’ll fold eventually, if Ryan asks him. He knows he will. But he’s not ready, not yet.

“Okay,” Ryan says softly. The tension twisting in Shane’s shoulders and back releases at that quiet voice, and he tries for a grin, hoping it doesn’t look as shaky as he feels.

“Just – “ Ryan’s hand crawls across the space between them. For a moment Shane thinks it’ll fall over his and doesn’t know how to prepare himself for it, but all Ryan does is leave his hand close by, their pinkies barely touching, and says, “If you need me, for anything. You know you just have to ask, right?”

Shane’s grin this time is far more genuine. “I know, Ry. Thanks.”

Ryan bumps their pinkies together, his teeth flashing white in a smile. “No problem, big guy. Now go the fuck to sleep, okay? You’re keeping me up.”

Shane wheezes, “You fucking asshole.” He’s tempted to steal the blankets back on pure spite, but Ryan’s soft laughter cools the urge.

It isn’t long before they both fall asleep, not quite touching, but close enough.

It’s close enough.

 

+1

Whatever lingering awkwardness Shane was expecting after their late night talk in Savannah never comes.

Ryan doesn't push him for answers, doesn't dig. For once, he seems content to allow the mystery of Shane's strange behavior to remain – wait for it – unsolved, at least until Shane is ready to fill him in.

That doesn't stop him from doing some subtle investigating of his own, though. Shane catches him sometimes, studying him, his expression a gentle mix of curious and thoughtful. Shane pretends not to notice, though eventually the familiar sensation of soft, dark eyes on his face becomes too difficult to ignore.

"You stare at me any longer and I'm gonna have to start charging admission, Bergara," he murmurs one afternoon, glancing away from his screen where he’s been hard at work on the script for the next episode of Ruining History.

He smirks as Ryan jumps, jerking in his chair and shooting Shane a glare. There’s a noticeable flush across the bridge of his nose.

"Shut up, Shane," he says without any heat.

"Hey now, that's pretty rude considering _I'm_ the one being stared at," Shane returns, resting his chin in his palm. "Spill it, Ryan. What's on your mind?" Shane's pretty sure he knows the answer to that already; tension has been building steadily between them since Savannah, and he knows that, eventually, something will have to give.

Ryan glances at him. "Do you want to come over? Tonight?"

It's on the tip of Shane's tongue to make a Netflix and chill joke, but considering the recent trend of his dreams, that would probably hit a little too close to home for comfort. 

"Sure," he says instead, ignoring the nervous lurch in his stomach. It'll be the first time he's really been alone with Ryan since Savannah. "Movie marathon?"

Ryan grins. "Of course. You can stay over, if you want. Unless you have somewhere to be in the morning."

Shane shakes his head. "I'm all yours," he says, wondering where the hell his brain to mouth filter has fucked off to.

Ryan doesn't seem to think anything of it, just turns back to his laptop screen with a soft, "Cool," and settles back in to work.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. With plenty of research to be done and notes to be compiled for Ruining History, Shane had been able to keep himself pleasantly distracted, but as he and Ryan pack up and head to the door together, anticipation begins to flood anew through his veins. He doesn't know what to expect, what to say, or what he's ready to divulge. Most concerning of all, he has no idea how Ryan will react to any of it.

There’s a chance he could be working himself up for nothing, of course. This could just be another normal night between them, nothing but crappy horror films and popcorn and teasing Ryan for falling for every single jump scare. Shane could almost convince himself of that, even, if he didn’t know Ryan as well as he did. Ryan is a curious person by nature, an investigator through and through, and once he’s fixated on something, he doesn’t tend to let it go.

And Shane remembers his face that night in Savannah, the curiosity mingled with concern. Ryan knew something was up, and he was worried. Shane’s casual reassurances were only going to satisfy him for so long.

And truth be told, he _wants_ Ryan to know, even if the prospect of telling him scares Shane shitless.

He’s a little on edge on the ride over to Ryan’s apartment, and even though he’s been there a thousand times before, he wavers by the door once they arrive, taking longer than he should to toe off his shoes and slip out of his jacket.

Ryan heads straight to his flat-screen, stooping to grab the remote from the entertainment center. “I’ll pick out a movie while you make popcorn?” he asks, the familiar Netflix logo filling the screen.

Usually Shane would make a joke about Ryan being a shitty host – “Putting the guest to work, Bergara? For _shame_.” – but he’s grateful for the chance to steal a few moments alone. He moves on autopilot to the kitchen, taking down a bowl and popping a bag of popcorn into the microwave like he’s done it a million times before (which, admittedly, he has; at this point he knows his way around Ryan’s apartment just as well as his own).

As the muffled pop of kernels fills the kitchen, Shane tries to determine how to even broach the subject of Savannah, how to explain to Ryan that he’s been acting strange lately because, _Oh, you carried me out of a bar a few weeks ago and now I can’t stop thinking about your arms, and your chest, and how I kind of want you to manhandle me down to the nearest horizontal surface. Hashtag just bro things, right?_

He sighs. Maybe it would be better – for both his sanity and his peace of mind – if he just waited for Ryan’s signal and went from there.

He heads back into the living room, a bounty of buttery goodness cradled in his arms, to find Ryan already camped out on the couch with the lights off. Shane catches sight of the screen and whistles. “Someone’s feeling brave,” he says, depositing the bowl on the coffee table and taking a seat on the couch.

“Yuck it up, Madej,” Ryan says, pressing play and reaching out to take a handful of popcorn from the bowl. “We’ll see whose shitting themselves by the end of the night. Hint: it’s not gonna be me.”

Shane snorts, reaching for his own handful of popcorn and popping a kernel into his mouth. “Mighty brave words, Bergara. Is that supposed to be a challenge?”

Ryan’s eyes flash. _Uh oh_ , Shane thinks, lips twitching in the beginnings of a smile. _There’s that competitive streak_.

“Oh, you’re cocky now,” Ryan says, “but just you fucking wait. I’ve been saving these babies for this very occasion. I’m finally gonna get to watch you squirm.”

Shane presses his hand to his chest, his voice climbing a few octaves until it’s all high and breathy. “You picked all of these out special for little old me? Ryan, I don’t know what to say.”

Ryan throws a pillow at him. “Shut up and prepare to fucking lose, big guy.”

Of course, Ryan's streak of bravado peters out about half-way through the first film, right around the moment the mother-daughter duo on screen wind up stranded in the middle of an empty road, nothing but dense forest around them and nightfall quickly approaching. Shane will give him credit - Ryan tries to hide it, but the subtle tightening of his shoulders and the stiff line of his back are dead giveaways. Shane's seen the same reactions time and time again in "haunted" locations strewn across the country and knows them for what they are - precursors to a truly spectacular freak-out.

And just like during their spooky jaunts, he remains keenly attuned to Ryan's growing unease, even as his eyes stay glued to the screen. It's like an instinct at this point, a sixth sense devoted to recognizing - and stabilizing, if he needs to - Ryan's fear. Even so, by the time the characters are cowering in their car, stalked from the darkness by the titular monster, Shane's surprised to discover that the few inches between them on the couch have disappeared. It had happened so gradually that he hadn't even noticed, but now that it's been brought to his attention he can focus on little else. Ryan is a line of warmth at his side, his face washed in the flickering blue light from the television, and unbidden, Shane is reminded viscerally of his dreams, all heat and skin and closeness. It's a dangerous line of thought, one he definitely shouldn't have with Ryan nearly fear-cuddling with him, but once it's taken root in his brain it's impossible for Shane to shift his focus back to the movie. 

Distracted, he's not prepared for the press of Ryan's shoulder against his, and though he doesn't jump, it's a near thing.

"Did you just jump?" Ryan whispers, glancing up at him. His tone lacks the smugness Shane would usually expect, considering the supposed goal for tonight was to make him squirm; instead, Ryan's usually exuberant voice has gone soft and almost solemn, like they're sharing a secret. Partners in fear, Shane thinks faintly, while some unnamable thing builds in his chest, tingling in his fingers and arms. He recognizes it for what it is - an urge, a need. The desire to do something truly ridiculous. 

On screen, the monster bursts from the darkness in a burst of discordant sound. Ryan doesn't shriek - Shane has to give him points for that - but his hand reaches for Shane's arm and clenches down hard, his grip firm and hot even through Shane's flannel. There are a millions ways Shane could respond, most of which involve him teasing Ryan mercilessly, but his body decides to take a different approach. He squeaks.

Fucking _squeaks_.

Beside him, Ryan goes still. "Dude, did you just - ?"

"Popcorn," Shane blurts, snatching the half-empty bowl and fleeing into the kitchen. The bowl clatters against the ceramic as he leans against the counter, squinting against the bright fluorescents and mentally berating himself for being so fucking lame. 

No, not lame. _Afraid_. 

_Score one for the Boogaras_ , he thinks humorlessly, running his palm down his face. What the fuck is he doing?

He doesn't have long to dwell; Ryan's in the kitchen a moment later, approaching him with something akin to caution. If that wasn't already enough to make Shane feel like shit, the noticeable length of space Ryan keeps between them would do the job twice over.

"Hey," Ryan starts, a hesitance in his voice that Shane automatically doesn't like. Fearful as he is, Ryan's never been a timid guy. He likes to meet things head on, confront them, even if he's scared shitless in the process. "Is everything okay?"

Shane tries to smile, reaching desperately for a nonchalance he doesn't feel. "Yeah, bud. Everything's good. Just needed - needed a second, you know? Guess your little monster movie got to me after all."

Ryan doesn't crack a smile like Shane had hoped he would; rather, he looks _guilty_ , his eyebrows furrowing over dark eyes. "Look, I'm sorry about the - " He waves his hand toward the living room, the couch, his expression twisting. "I didn't mean to grab at you or like, crowd into you." He laughs, a short burst of sound that lacks any humor to it, and promises to keep his distance if Shane wants to finish the movie. "Unless you want to go?" he asks quietly, his shoulders drawing up as if he's bracing for a blow. "Or just - Shane, man, could you _say_ something?"

It's the quiet desperation in that last question that finally gets Shane moving. Well, it's that and so much more: it's the past few weeks of longing, memories of Ryan's arm firm around his waist, the warmth of him tucked against Shane's side. It's the self-conscious tilt of Ryan's smile, the way his eyes drift to the floor the longer Shane remains silent. It's the urge to do something ridiculous, back with a vengeance and stronger than ever. This time, Shane's gonna fucking roll with it.

"Ryan," he starts. There must be something in his voice, because Ryan stops pretending that the floor is fascinating and meets his gaze, his brow raised in a silent question. "I'm gonna do something," Shane continues, and adds, "Something stupid. Stop me, if this is - if this is stupid."

Ryan opens his mouth to say - something, probably to ask what the hell Shane's going on about, but Shane doesn't give him a chance. He's taking a step forward, curling his fingers around Ryan's jaw and ducking his head to press their lips together. His heart goes off like a fucking shot at that first tentative touch, and he waits - to be shoved away, or punched, or kicked out of the apartment. He has a few frankly terrifying seconds to appreciate the softness of Ryan's mouth against his, the heat of his breath and the scratch of his stubble beneath his palms before Ryan finally moves -

And he moves _in_. His mouth falls open beneath Shane's, a soft breath escaping his lips as he tilts his head to change the angle of the kiss, make it _better_. A pleasant haze descends on Shane as they meet and withdraw, meet and withdraw, a careful give and take culminating in a truly fantastic kiss. Well, kiss _es_ , plural, all soft and hot and tasting faintly of popcorn. Shane feels pressure along his hips as Ryan's arms wrap around him, and oh, that's good.

Ryan's dark eyes, dancing in the light when they separate a few moments later, are even better. " _So_ not stupid," he says, the breathless cadence of his voice doing absolutely terrible things to Shane's heart. 

Shane's answering laugh is hoarse from exertion and so much relief he could honestly fucking cry. He pulls Ryan back in, their smiles making any further attempts at a successful kiss laughable at best until they finally get with the program, humor giving way to soft sighs and the slick curl of Ryan's tongue against his. Shane has to bend down to accommodate for their height difference, but it's a sacrifice he makes willingly, what little discomfort there is outweighed entirely by the soft rumble of Ryan's moan against his lips as Shane's fingers curl into his hair, cupping the base of his skull. 

He groans as Ryan presses him back against the counter, a deep-throated cry that barely registers over the slick sounds of their kisses, the hard drum of his pulse in his ears. 

"You _like_ this," Ryan breathes, lips catching on Shane's as he speaks, sending pleasurable little jolts down the length of Shane's spine. 

"Kissing you?" Shane teases, ducking down to press his lips to the curve of Ryan's jaw. "You fishin’ for compliments already, Bergara?"

Ryan tilts his head into the caress, a soft sigh escaping his throat before he seems to remember his train of thought. "No, I mean, you like _this_." His hands tighten around Shane's hips, the only warning he allows before he lifts Shane off the ground, depositing him on the counter within one startled breath and the next.

"Holy fucking shit," Shane curses, running his mouth in the hopes of distracting from the hot flush of arousal suddenly burning in his cheeks. "Warn a guy next time, would you?" 

Ryan doesn't bother to answer. He's grinning, all bright-eyed and brilliant. When he speaks, his voice is rich with triumph. "I _knew_ it," he says, and squeezes Shane's hips in emphasis.

The meaning in that little gesture is clear enough, and Shane gapes as he filters through the last few weeks in his mind, every instance where he'd been flustered by Ryan's proximity and Ryan's warmth and Ryan's touch. He'd thought Ryan oblivious to all of it. "Bullshit you knew!"

Ryan's laugh is loud and bright; Shane feels it echoing through his own chest. "You've been staring at my arms for _weeks_ , big guy," he says, practically radiating smug satisfaction. It’s definitely not attractive. Not at all.

Shane splutters. "I've done no such thing." His voice lilts at the end, turning it into a question, and Ryan wheezes.

"Dude, you so have." His voice dips dangerously at the end, his body slotting between Shane's splayed thighs, Shane's hands falling to his shoulders and squeezing unconsciously at the firm swells of muscle he can feel beneath Ryan's thin t-shirt. 

Shane groans, half in helpless arousal and half in hopeless defeat. "There'll be no living with you after this," he murmurs, even as his legs wrap around Ryan's hips, guided there by Ryan's hands curled around his thighs. They probably look ridiculous, Shane's too long limbs wrapped around Ryan like a limpet, but fuck if it isn't also ridiculously hot, feeling the flex of Ryan's hips as he rises up to meet his mouth.

"You'll figure it out," Ryan breathes, just before sealing their lips together in a sweet, deep kiss. 

Shane doesn't bother to tell him that he already has.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on tumblr @theawfuledges. I need more BFU buds to flail about these two idiots with!
> 
> (Also I'm thinking this needs a ~~smutty~~ sequel. Let me know what you think?)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the calm before crescendo [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14802137) by [bessyboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bessyboo/pseuds/bessyboo)
  * [[podfic] the calm before crescendo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807189) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery)
  * [lights and thunder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14899343) by [abovetheruins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins)




End file.
